


Imagine Thorin in 1776

by TheGlassFloor



Category: 1776 (1972), The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: 4th of July, Alternate Universe - Historical, Based on the movie 1776, Crack, Eventual Bagginshield, Fluff, Ghost Bilbo, Independence Day - Freeform, M/M, Pure utter silliness, Spoof, Tolkien characters reincarnated as Founding Fathers, Tongue-in-cheek, more so than actual history, my grasp of history is slippery at best, who are now spinning in their graves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 10:41:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7357996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGlassFloor/pseuds/TheGlassFloor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We've had Bagginshield celebrations for Christmas and Valentine's Day...  Well...why not Fourth of July?</p><p>I know, I know...The Hobbit is a work of English literature...just go with it, okay?</p><p>American history through the eyes of a few onetime denizens of Middle-earth.  A tongue-in-cheek fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imagine Thorin in 1776

Imagine Thorin Oakenshield in the year 1776.

Imagine he was reborn as John Adams.  Yes, _that_ John Adams.

Imagine him conveniently Man-sized; still shorter than most other Men, at five-foot-seven, but taller than he was in his first lifetime, as a dwarf.  Now imagine him without a beard.  Come on, now, just try.

Imagine him incessantly irate with the British Crown and exasperated by the unwillingness of Congress to just vote for Independence already.

Imagine the sound of Thorin’s voice as he yells out the name of Benjamin Franklin.

He comes traipsing out through the front doors of Independence Hall--except it isn’t called that yet, at this point in time it’s called “the State House”, I hope that hasn’t spoiled anything for you--searching for the man and having no luck in finding him.  He yells out Franklin’s name again.

He likes to yell.  Apparently.  That might be part of the reason why he’s not very well liked among the other delegates, his fellow members of the Second Continental Congress appointed to represent the Thirteen Colonies (what _is_ it with that number?) assembled in Philadelphia.

“Obnoxious”, they call him.  He’s not the first American to be accused of that, and he certainly won’t be the last.  It’s that whole Spirit of Rebellion; it’s been ingrained in the American consciousness since the beginning.  What can you do?  Not that the term “American” really applies yet; it won’t until the colonists officially declare Independence from Great Britain.  (You’re on the edge of your seat, aren’t you?)

John Dickinson (or DICKinson as Thorin would prefer to call him, make a note of that), one of the delegates representing Pennsylvania, prefers to think of himself and his fellow countrymen in the New World as “Englishmen”.  He and Thorin don’t see eye to eye, and not just because Dickinson is taller.  He thinks maybe they shouldn’t be so harsh on King George, even if the wretched tyrant does make them pay an awful lot of taxes.

“Why, Mahal?” Thorin laments.  “Why this life?  Why America?  Why Philadelphia?  Why _Congress_?”

All rhetorical questions, of course; he knows why.

 

*** ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ ***

 

A portrait of William Penn, the founder of Pennsylvania, hangs on the wall on the second floor of the State House.  Most of the Congressmen would like it taken down, say it creeps them out, swear they have seen its nose twitch, but Adams insists that it be left up.  He’s been known to sit and stare at it longingly for hours at a time.

It seems that every time Bilbo Baggins is reborn somewhere in the English-speaking world, he is always given the name William.

The number of times he and Thorin have returned to Earth to live yet another life is beyond count.  They don’t carry every memory of every previous lifetime along with them to the next one, but the memory of their very first life together in Middle-earth always resurfaces sooner or later.  Typically they spend their childhoods apart, meet in adulthood, and remember.

This time, for whatever reason, their lives didn’t quite match up.  By the time Thorin aka John Adams remembered, Bilbo aka William Penn had already been dead for over fifty years.

 

*** ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ ***

 

“What are you on about now, dear heart?” Bilbo says, not unkindly.  The voice of Thorin’s beloved comes from nowhere, and yet from seemingly all around.

“I’m about at the end of my rope, ghivashel,” Thorin answers.  “It’s this infernal Congress.  A whole year they’ve been sitting here, and yet not one ounce of progress has been made.  Piddle and twiddle, that’s all they ever do!”

Thorin’s Harvard education has given him an interesting vocabulary.

“Then why stay there?” Bilbo says.  “Why not take some time off?  Go home to Boston, spend some time with Dís and the boys.  If you leave tonight you can be there in only eight days.”

“What I really want is to be able to spend time with you,” Thorin says.

“You’re with me right now.”

“You know what I mean.  Remembering you, even though I’ve never met you in this lifetime...talking to you, hearing your voice like the wind whispering softly through the trees, but never actually seeing you...it’s better than nothing, I’ll grant, but it’s still not enough.  It’s not the same as being together.”

“I know.  You’re right, it’s not.  We have to hope we’ll get another chance to be together in the next life.  That’s why it’s so important for us to combat the tyranny that exists today.  It’s the only way we can really expect a future together in a place worth being.  You know I didn’t establish this colony just for it to remain in the hands of the British forever.”

(Not that any offense is intended against the British _in general_ , mind you, just their King... _that_ particular king, at that particular time.  And anyway, John Adams met with King George a couple years after the Revolution, and the two of them got along just fine.  Really, that actually happened, go read about it.  But wait, let’s not get ahead of ourselves…)

“Even still,” Bilbo says to Thorin, “you should give yourself a break.  You’re just one man, after all.”

“Not just one man,” Thorin says.  “Franklin and Jefferson are also in favor of Independence, and possibly Lee from Virginia as well.”

 

*** ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ ***

 

Thorin eventually finds Benjamin Franklin in the garden near the State House, sitting for a portrait.  Ori, or Thomas Jefferson as he is now known, ever the brilliant artist in this life as much as in any previous, stands before his canvas with brush and palette in hand.  Franklin has nodded off, but Ori keeps on painting.  He notices Thorin approaching.

“What’s this?” Thorin asks.

“He was whining about how much he misses having a beard,” Ori says, “wonders why in hell they’re not in style in this place and time period.  I told him I’d paint a picture of him with a beard that he could keep if he would just shut up about it already.”

Thorin takes a look, but instead of a picture of Franklin, he sees that Ori has apparently painted something straight out of his imagination: a tall tower with an eye situated on top.

“I already finished his portrait a while ago,” Ori says in explanation, “so I moved on to this.  I thought it could be the symbol of our new nation, should we ever successfully gain independence like you and Bilbo’s ghost want us to.  And our national motto could be ‘E Pluribus Unum’, which, as you know, is Latin for ‘Out of Many, _One_ ’.  Well....what do you think?”

“It’s very good, Ori, but...must it be a tower?  I think a pyramid might be better.  I can’t put my finger on why, I just have a feeling that a tower with an eyeball on top might make people...uncomfortable.”

“A pyramid?  Hmm.  Maybe you’re right.”  Ori shrugs, takes his supplies, and leaves for home.

Thorin wakes Franklin with a swift kick to one of the legs of his chair.

“Good afternoon, Thorin,” he says, peering up at him through his spectacles.

“Where have you been, Gandalf?” Thorin demands.  “I could have used your help in last night’s session.”

The reader will note that Thorin, Ori, and Gandalf only use their original names in private moments such as these, but answer to Adams, Jefferson, and Franklin at all other times.  (Likewise, Thorin only speaks out loud to Bilbo when there is no one around to hear, so as to avoid appearing insane.)  Fate has brought them together once again in this life, allowing them to remember each other from the first.  In that same spirit, it could potentially be interesting to include other members of Thorin’s company as congressmen in order to round things out: Bombur, for example, as Samuel Chase of Maryland, because he enjoys eating; Bofur as Stephen Hopkins of Rhode Island, because he’s fond of the drink; Oin as Dr. Lyman Hall of Georgia, because he’s a doctor; Balin as President John Hancock, because...just because, I guess.  However, this idea will not actually lead the story anywhere, so let us abandon it now.

“Help?  Pennsylvania would not have been much help in convincing the others of the need for Independence, Thorin,” Gandalf says, then yawns.   “Especially not when Dickinson is so adamantly against it.  Our best chance of convincing the colonies of the South is for someone from the South to make the proposal.”

“Lee, you mean?”

“He’ll be back soon.”

“He had better.  I don’t know how much longer I can stand waiting.”

“Do you ever appreciate the irony, Thorin?” Gandalf says with a smile.

Thorin frowns.  “Irony?  What irony?”

“That Ori, our little Ori, now Thomas Jefferson, is so tall that you barely come up to his shoulder, for one.”  The wizard stares off into the distance, as though suddenly overcome with nostalgia.  “And that you, who was once the great King Under the Mountain, fighting tooth and nail to reclaim your kingdom with a band of loyal followers ready to answer to you, are now attempting to unite your people in opposition to a king, and calling for democracy, only to find that almost no one wants to listen to you?”

Thorin rolls his eyes and walks away.

 

*** ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ ***

 

Imagine Thorin’s enthusiastic outburst of “Finally!” when Richard Lee returns from Virginia and proposes a debate on the issue of Independence.  “Massachusetts seconds!” Thorin exclaims, slamming his hand down on the table.

Imagine a good forty-five minutes worth of debate (never mind the details), ultimately leading up to Dickinson proposing that the vote for Independence be unanimous in order to pass, a motion that Hancock feels compelled to support.

Imagine Thorin suppressing the urge to knock their heads together.  Instead, he proposes postponing the vote until a written Declaration can be presented.

“What sort of Declaration?” asks Hancock.

“One that lists all the reasons for separation from England,” Thorin says, “our purposes, goals, and so on.”

“Don’t we already know those?” Hancock says.

“Oh Mahal, yes, _we_ know them, but...what about the rest of the world?  Certainly we require the assistance of a powerful nation, such as France or Spain, and such a written Declaration would be consistent with European delicacy.”

“Come now, Mr. Adams,” Dickinson says irritatingly, “you’ll have to do better than that.  Answer straight: What would be its purpose?”

Ori stands up and answers, speaking slowly and carefully: “To place before mankind the common sense of the subject in terms so plain and firm as to command their assent.”

“Yes.”  Thorin nods and points at Ori.  “What he said.”

“Boy,” Gandalf says privately to Thorin, “he can flip it on like a switch, can’t he?”

Postponement is granted, and Hancock appoints Adams, Jefferson, and Franklin to the committee to draft the Declaration, along with Roger Sherman of Connecticut and Robert Livingston of New York.  The five of them head upstairs so that each of them can take turns making his case why he’s _not_ the one who should write the Declaration, and all of it rhymes.

For example: “Mr. Adams, but Mr. Adams, I cannot write with any style or proper etiquette.  I don’t know a participle from a predicate.  I am just a simple cobbler from Connecticut.”

 _That was gorgeous,_ Thorin thinks to himself.   _Even more beautiful than “Misty Mountains”._

But in the end, it’s all just hot air anyway, since Thorin has intended for Ori to write the Declaration all along.

What a perfectly dreadful time for the scribe to develop a very specific type of writer’s block…

 

*** ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ ***

 

Thorin and Gandalf show up at Ori’s house one week later to check on his progress writing the Declaration.  Gandalf gently suggests giving him more time, says it may be better not to disturb him, but Thorin has grown too impatient.

Ascending the stairs up to Ori’s bedroom, he pauses only momentarily when he hears the sound of a violin--an instrument he’s sure Jefferson doesn’t know how to play--coming from upstairs.  His eyes widen as he realizes he knows the tune.   _He knows who plays that tune_.

He throws open the door without knocking, and sure enough, there stands Dwalin.  Not Dwalin reborn as someone new, but _actual_ Dwalin, conveniently Man-sized, standing beside Ori’s bed with one foot resting on a stool.  He’s barechested, with his instrument tucked under his chin, which he ceases playing upon Thorin’s arrival.  Ori is sitting upright in bed, holding the covers up to his collarbone.  The two of them stare silently at Thorin, who stares silently back.  Dwalin lowers the violin and bow and lays them aside.

Finally Thorin speaks: “Dwalin?  Ori?   _In the middle of the afternoon?_ ”

“Now, Thorin,” Gandalf says, coming up behind him and laying a hand on his shoulder, “don’t tell me your Judeo-Christian sensibilities have gone and turned you into a prude.”

Imagine Thorin rounding on him, eyes ablaze.  “You did this!  You used your magic to bring him back!”

“Only for a day or two.  After that he will fade away, back into the ether.  I don’t have the power to bring anyone back for good.  You see, poor Ori was having difficulty concentrating on his writing, and it seemed to me that there was only one way to remedy that.”

“I told you,” Ori says, “I _burn_ , Mr. Adams.”

“Nice to see you both,” says Dwalin, “but seeing as I’m here on borrowed time, could you maybe leave now so that Ori and I can go back to...enjoying each other’s company?”

Moments later, once again outside, Thorin continues to seethe.

“If you could do that for Dwalin,” he says to Gandalf, “you could also do that for Bilbo.  You always could have.  And you never told me.”

“It’s not that simple,” says Gandalf.  “I can’t bring back just anyone at any time.  It’s difficult to explain to someone who isn’t a wizard, but this type of magic is not my forte.  It’s not inexhaustible, and it lacks consistency.  Otherwise I would have no reason not to bring Bilbo and Dwalin back every few days so that you and Ori could always have them with you, virtually.  I did it this once so that Ori can write the Declaration, that was the purpose.  The Declaration is the most important thing right now, even you would agree.  Besides, you always have Bilbo with you anyway.  You talk to him all the time.  He’s probably eavesdropped on this entire conversation.”

“It’s not the same,” Thorin says softly.  By now his indignation has ebbed and he has cooled down considerably.

“Tell him I said hello.  I must leave you now, for I have a rendezvous.  I’d invite you along, but I fear you would just make her nervous.”

 

*** ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ ***

 

Having successfully returned to the right frame of mind, Ori finishes writing the Declaration.  The committee presents it before Congress and more debate ensues, certain passages of the text are reworded or removed, other stuff gets added, unfortunate compromises are made, and ultimately, after all of the colonies’ interests are adequately appealed to--thanks in part to one of Gandalf’s mind games thrown in at the last moment--all thirteen of them vote unanimously in favor of Independence.

Dickinson, however, cannot in good conscience sign his name to the Declaration, and before leaving the Congress for good, he asks if Mr. Adams will step outside with him.  Thorin knows a trap when he sees one, or thinks he does at any rate, but complies with Dickinson anyway for the sake of appearances, figuring that if the man is such a poor sport that his humiliating defeat (an intellectual defeat, no less) would compel him to want to pick a fight with Adams outside, he would probably just come right out and say so.  And if Thorin is wrong about that, well...he may not have a sword on his person, but his cane should do just fine in a pinch.

It turns out, however, that Dickinson just wants to take a walk, so they walk together quietly along the dim streets of Philadelphia for a few blocks, neither saying much to the other except about how hot it is, and how the July humidity stays potent even into the night.  Thorin wonders where Dickinson is leading him, but then the taller man walks ahead of him, stops, and turns around, and Thorin watches as Dickinson’s face transforms in the amber light of an overhead lantern to that of someone else--someone he recognizes but hasn’t seen in Ages.  His hair changes a moment after that, from brown to platinum blond.

“Hello, Thorin.”

“Thranduil!   _You’re_ John Dickinson?”

“Just one of many identities I’ve assumed over the Ages, ever since the rest of the elves departed or faded.  And unlike you, there’s no need to die and be reborn each time a new identity is adopted, and I get to choose them.”

“So why did you choose this?  Why did you oppose American Independence so adamantly?  Just to make my life difficult?”

Thranduil scoffs.  “You flatter yourself.  No, I suppose I did it to find out if I could have it proven to me once and for all that the ways of the Old World really are gone, that the people really can govern their own nation rather than having a king ruling over them.  I imagine that in the future many other nations will take after America in that regard.”

“I hope that’s true.”

Thranduil turns to walk away, never to be seen again, but Thorin stops him.

“How did you know it was me?”

Thranduil scoffs again.  “You’re joking, right?  It was obvious from day one.”

“Really?”

“Not to mention all those times in Congress when you said ‘Mahal damn you all’, out loud, where everyone could hear you...sort of a dead giveaway, don’t you think?”

“Hmm.  Good point.”

He turns to leave again, but Thorin calls after him before he gets very far.  “Just one more question.”  Thorin jerks his thumb over his shoulder, pointing towards Independence Hall.  “Edward Rutledge, is he an elf too?”

“No,” Thranduil answers, “he’s just an awful person who likes owning slaves.”

“All right.  Just checking.”

 

*** ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ ***

 

It’s July Fourth.  Yes, _that_ July Fourth.  Imagine.

“Could somebody else please come up here and sign this thing?” John Hancock whines, having just scratched his enormous signature onto the Declaration of Independence.  “Seeing my name on it all by itself is making me nervous.”

One by one, each congressman goes up to the table at the front of the room to sign the treasonous document.

“Well, how about that?” Thorin says, coming over to sit beside Ori after taking his turn.  “Independence at last.”

“Now all we need is a president,” Ori says.  “How about it, Mr. Adams?  I reckon you’d make a pretty decent candidate for the position.”

“Me?  President?” Thorin says.  “No thanks.  I’ll let General Washington have that job.”

“All right, then, you can be the second president, after his term ends.”

Thorin holds up his hands.  “Fine.  But only if you’re the third, Mr. Jefferson.”

Gandalf signs, then joins them.  “Gentlemen,” he says with a twinkle in his eye, “I don’t know about you, but I think this occasion calls for some fireworks!”

 

*** ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ ***

 

Two hundred and forty years later, Bilbo and Thorin are together--for real this time--visiting the National Archives in Washington, D.C.  Bilbo’s name is once again William, of course, and Thorin’s name is...I don’t know, something.

“Now there’s a sight to see,” Bilbo says, observing the Declaration of Independence inside of its glass-covered display case.  “And it was all worth it, wasn’t it?”

“I suppose,” Thorin says.

Imagine Bilbo delivering a playful nudge with his elbow to Thorin’s ribs.  Imagine Thorin responding with a small, heart-melting smile, the one he uses whenever he’s teasing Bilbo.  He has a beard again, and Bilbo is glad.  He looks so much more handsome that way.

“You know,” the smaller man says, “there’s an invisible map on the back.”

“What?!”

Bilbo laughs.  “They never told you?  Wow, they really kept you out of the loop, didn’t they?  Obnoxious and disliked indeed.”

“A map of what, dare I ask?”

“A map leading to the location of a great treasure hoard.”

Thorin scoffs.  “Oh, a great treasure hoard, _really_.  And let me guess, in order to read it you have to hold it under the light of the moon on Midsummer’s Eve?”

“And Boromir, son of Denethor, he tried to steal it, see--”

“Ghivashel?”

“Yes?”

“I’m hungry.”

“You are?  Hmm.  Yeah, I guess I am too.  Okay.  We can go.”

Imagine the happy husbands joining hands and walking out of the museum together.

 

*** ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ ***

 

The high school student wakes to the sound of a tolling bell, their parted lips momentarily plastered to a page of their American History textbook, where a few words are now smudged in a spot of dried saliva.  The student raises their head just in time to see the words “THE END” appear on the screen of their laptop before it switches over to the _1776_ DVD menu.  Off to the side, the student’s _Hobbit Trilogy_ box set sits atop their desk among some other clutter.

It only takes a moment of reorientation for the student to remember: they were studying for their big history test--first thing tomorrow--with the movie _1776_ playing simultaneously in order to beat as much knowledge into their brain as possible, and must have fallen asleep somewhere along the way.

The student rubs their eyes.  “What a weird dream.”

**Author's Note:**

> Go ahead...watch 1776 and tell me that Adams, Franklin, Jefferson, and Dickinson don't remind you of Thorin, Gandalf, Ori, and Thranduil.
> 
> This started out as just a weird idea I had. Then more weird ideas and details got piled on top of it, and before long I was saying to myself, "Am I actually going to write this? Yes, I think I am."
> 
> Let me know if you liked it. Or if you thought it was awful. I'm open to anything.
> 
> Happy Fourth of July!


End file.
